


Employee Discount

by bopeep



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Retail, Cinnabon, M/M, Mutual Pining, Prank Wars, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Shopping Malls, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2019-01-06 01:34:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12201258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bopeep/pseuds/bopeep
Summary: Sam Wilson doesn't love working in a store that makes him wear vanity-sized polos and breathe in clouds of men's cologne like the worst kind of GQ aromatherapy, but the view from his cash register across the mall to the Hot Topic and the sullen Dark Prince of Wallet Chains he loves to hate may just beat the minimum wage blues.





	Employee Discount

**Author's Note:**

  * For [queenmab_scherzo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenmab_scherzo/gifts).



> This piece is accompanied by an [ excellent mixtape](https://open.spotify.com/user/queenmabscherzo/playlist/12E3Z7ihildRZVgwa99KGq?fo=1&utm_medium=share&utm_source=desktop&post_id=10159642764005144) by [queenmabscherzo! ](queenmabscherzo.tumblr.com) The Jams are Real!

 

For some, puberty passed kindly over, sparing those who had anointed the door frames of their adolescent bodies with nothing but sheer dumb luck and the genetic lottery jackpot. And for others, that biblical Angel of Death kicked down the door and had a hormone fiesta. The houses ravaged were seemingly arbitrary, and that was the only solace that Sam Wilson took as he scratched at the patchy facial hair testing the waters on his already war-torn face. He counted his blessings: Steve had growth spurt so fast his joints ached like an old man and he was constantly tripping over inches he didn’t have the day before. It seemed they were paying some ridiculous toll, like traversing into adulthood meant dumping a million dollars of dignity into a basket before you could pass go. He wrote as much in his journal; he had a lot of thoughts like these. Typically the words wound around common threads: new song lyrics from the radio, jokes he thought of too late, emotional confusion, and _please, god, just let get me through, I’ll pay it, just let me live._ The milestones came and went: he kissed a girl at 13, a boy at 15, joined scholastic bowl, quit scholastic bowl, joined track, grew out of his entire closet on two separate occasions. It fell past him in waves, dances and football games missed to study for social studies quizzes, and built, seemingly every day and every emotional coin spent, towards a fat letter in the mailbox at the end of the high school nightmare.  
  
His mama was at work, so obviously he brought it to Steve’s house to show his second mama.  
  
“Steve’s in the basement with the neighbors,” Mrs. Rogers opened the door knowingly, never a helicopter but always warm, perpetually putting in earrings and running out the door to some night shift or another. “Sam. What have you got there?” She caught sight of the envelope, though Sam did try to hide it on his way past.  
  
“I haven’t opened it yet,” he said, but Mrs. Rogers hugged him anyway. She didn’t gush and chide, or disparage her own child’s choice to pursue art, or take any of Sam’s feelings for granted. Like Steve, she just did things, reacted with her whole heart. And then she darted away, humming busily, and Sam itched to open the envelope right there, in the empty foyer, and have the moment his own.  
  
But Bucky Barnes shattered his reverie.  
  
“Son of a fucking shit! _Nat_!”  
  
“Blue shell on your six, Barnes.”  
  
“Too fucking late!” His unmistakeable broken voice filtered up the basement stairs and Sam rolled his eyes to heaven. If he had hoped for a glorious, peaceful reception of his good news, it was in vain.  
  
“Getting your ass kicked again, Barnes?” He asked, casually ducking the low-hanging beam above the bottom stair. Bucky shot him a glare.  
  
“I can’t play Toad and everybody fucking knows that.”  
  
“Toad is one of the fastest drivers,” Steve pointed out, leaning left as he steered Luigi over the finish to take first. “No excuses, Buck.” Bucky pouted.  
  
“He’s a lightweight!”  
  
“ _You’re_ a lightweight,” Natasha smirked as Yoshi took fourth, happy enough just to have sniped Bucky into last place. She happily set her controller down as Bucky threw his on the couch.  
  
“This game sucks.”  
  
“ _You_ suck,” Sam joined the other two in the obvious response. It was Steve who noticed the letter, his eyes brightening just like his mother’s.  
  
“Is that from--- did you make it?” He nearly jumped from where he’d been folded on the floor in front of the TV, wires tangling in his feet, yanking the console free and turning the screen to static. Sam shrugged.  
  
“Haven’t opened it,” he admitted. Bucky stared.  
  
“Make what?”  
  
“College boy, college boy, so handsome and so smart, gonna buy all the votes and run for Congress,” Natasha sing-songed and Bucky cuffed her on the shoulder, his hands buried as paws in his black hoodie.  
  
“ _What_ college?” He demanded, angrier than he meant to sound. Nat quirked an eyebrow and said nothing. Bucky quickly averted her gaze, tone lowering. “You guys never tell me anything, is all, shouldn't I know?”  
  
“ _The_ college!” Steve exclaimed. “Open it, open it!”  
  
“Isn’t that kind of far?” Bucky gaped as Sam tore the paper open.  
  
“The basis of its appeal,” he breathed. His hands shook with adrenaline. It was a moment out of a teen movie. Or, at least he had imagined it would be. “Fuck.” The room dropped five or six degrees and Steve launched into a panicked consolation mode.  
  
“Oh. S--Sam.” His hands hovered in the air with no idea where to put them, helpless and mannequin. “Hey, it’s--- you know there are plenty of other schools, you know. Really,” he attempted. “We can still get an apartment, or whatever. Fuck that school.” Bucky opened his mouth to speak and Natasha hit him hard enough to bruise, and he said nothing. She adjusted the choker at her neck. Sam drew out the moment like taffy, heaving a tired sigh.  
  
“Sorry,” Natasha said. He nodded, eyes glued to the paper.  
  
“Yeah,” he replied. “Me too. I’m gonna have to get three jobs to pay for this.”  
  
“There’s alwa--- wait, what?” Steve’s whole face boggled as his intention did a 180. “Pay--- gimme that!” He tore the paper from Sam’s hands as the boy crumbled into hysterics. “You piece of shit. You did get in!”  
  
“Of course I did, asshole, I’m the best,” Sam beamed, falling onto the couch with a celebratory sigh of relief. “Wish I coulda taken a picture of your faces, wow. It’s a big fucking envelope! You really thought they were going to send two pounds of paper to reject me?”  
  
“So how soon are we getting rid of you?” Bucky said after the paper had been passed around. Sam cracked open a Mountain Dew and rolled his eyes.  
  
“Not soon enough for you, apparently, Captain Tightpants. Those Nat’s?”  
  
“You’ll be pleased to know that I do not fit in those jeans,” Natasha smirked. Bucky’s brow cast a heavy shadow.  
  
“To be fair, Buck, they’re probably not good for your circulation," Steve considered, but he was no beacon of fashion in his cargo shorts compared to the meticulous punk looks that Bucky crafted.  
  
“Gerard Way has the same pants,” he grumbled. “Watch a music video for once, grandpa.”  
  
“Sam brought it up.”  
  
“I’m the man of the hour, I feel no regrets for a single day of my life," Sam slurred with a happy smile. Bucky's mouth twisted a smile.  
  
“Bet your mother does.”  
  
“Buck,” Steve warned. “I’m getting tired of separating you two.”   
  
“Yeah, well," Bucky grew darker than usual, which was no small feat given his default state. "Soon college will do a good enough job of that.”  
  
“Couldn’t come a minute too soon. Bet I can smell you all the way from there,” Sam couldn’t help but smirk and Bucky tilted his eyes to the light, a playfulness there behind the misfit affect.  
  
“Good, then you won’t miss me.”  
  
“I don’t miss you already,” Sam laughed, tossing a pillow at him. Bucky deflected it into the wall, knocking a tack out of Steve’s _Austin Powers_ poster. “You eat all the Doritos, Rogers?”  
  
“It’s my house. And I’m still growing,” Steve defended, nudging the empty bag with his feet as he settled back down in front of the TV. She struggled to plug the console back in, fumbling with the three color-coded wires.  
  
“You’re lucky your mom still buys all these snacks. You’d be broke as hell on your own,” Nat said from behind a folded copy of Tiger Beat. “What’s the big deal with this Star Wars guy,” she sighed idly to no one in particular. “Face like a child.”  
  
“I probably owe my ma hundreds of dollars in yogurt tubes alone,” Steve lamented, ignoring her. “I need a job.”  
  
“Yeah,” Sam sighed. “I didn’t get any of the scholarships I thought I would.”  
  
“Some of us work for a living,” Natasha said through a languid stretch. Sam and Steve exchanged a knowing look; Natasha led a double life as a bubbly party chaperone at Club Libby Lu by day and a dead-eyed grunge girl by night. If she wasn’t glued to her mp3 player, she was combing mysterious glitter out of her hair. There was a halo of sparkles around her place on the basement couch. Bucky worried his lip, the piercing there catching the light.  
  
“Could get some jobs at the mall with us,” he shrugged. “They can sniff out teens who need jobs like bloodhounds. Teenhounds,” he babbled. “I’d watch that show. You should try. Easy summer job. Something.” Natasha looked at him quizzically.  
  
“You’d have to see them every day. Probably carpool,” she said slowly. Bucky ducked behind a curtain of hair, flat-iron straight.  
  
“Save on gas money,” he said. Steve hummed.  
  
“That would be great, actually. Lifeguarding doesn’t really pay the bills,” he said. “Maybe we could work at the pretzel place or something.”  
  
“And waste those beautiful faces?” Natasha suddenly lit up, the wheels spinning. “The Abercrombie is always looking for fresh meat. Easy money,” she cooed, before tossing in like icing on the cake, “and it’s conveniently right across the mall from Hot Topic.” Sam looked over at Bucky, who was fully hidden in his own folded shadow. It made the hair on his arms stand up. _What a dork._  
  
“I’d get to stare at Bucky’s mug all day long?” He asked with a smirk. “What a dream.” He surprised himself with the sincerity that bled through. Bucky glanced up only to avert his gaze with lightning speed.  
  
“Riches,” Nat assured him. “Orange Julius within spitting distance. Constant over-airconditioning. Smoke breaks with the guys from Sharper Image.”  
  
“Sounds like the song of the summer,” Sam grinned. From the quiet of the basement where they’d spent countless hours beating Ocarina of Time together, drinking their way through the flavors of Jones Soda, esoterically navigating their feelings and crushes without ever naming names, blasting Third Eye Blind, the summer looked good laid ahead of him. He could save up money for school without sacrificing the people he cared about before he had to say goodbyes (a thought he immediately banished; they’d stay this close forever.) He sighed happily and grabbed his favorite controller. “I’ll bring my best set of abs to interview tomorrow.”

* * *

 **StevenGrant007** : Nat! SUP!  
**WidowmakerNR:** nmu  
**Stevengrant007:** n2m. BUT we got the job! Thank you for putting in a good word for us. We start tomorrow morning!  
**WidowmakerNR:** welcome 2 tha grind, my boy  
**StevenGrant007** : My ma is EXCITED ^_^  
**WidowmakerNR** : Wait til she sees what you have to wear  
**StevenGrant007** : ?  
Auto Response from WidowmakerNR: _I am away from my computer right now_  
**StevenGrant007:** Nat  
Auto Response from WidowmakerNR: _I am away from my computer right now_  
**StevenGrant007:** WHAT DO YOU MEAN WHAT I HAVE TO WEAR. WHAT DO I HAVE TO WEAR?  
Auto Response from WidowmakerNR: _I am away from my computer right now  
  
_

**WindowmakerNR:** Heard u got the jobs, gg  
**RedWing85:** Yea! I’m driving tomorrow, do you need a ride?  
**WidowmakerNR:** nope  
**WidowmakerNR:** been getting a lift w body wash guy  
**RedWing85:** what  
Auto Response from WidowmakerNR: _I am away from my computer right now_ _  
_ **RedWing85:** dammit natasha comeON  
Auto Response from WidowmakerNR: _I am away from my computer right now_ _  
_  
  
**WidowmakerNR** : sam said he’d drive u to the mall  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : lol  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : wait really!  
**xXxbasketcasexXx:** that’d be awesome I’m sick of biking when u drive with clint  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : did he say what time he’s coming?  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : Is it just sam or sam and steve?  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : do i call him  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : Nat hello  
**WidowmakerNR** : sry i  thought i heard something  
**WidowmakerNR** : it’s------------- opportunity knocking!!1 knock knock this is your big chance before he moves ;)  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : fuck off I told you already it’ll n ever happen  
**WidowmakerNR** : don’t fuck it upppppp baby boyyyy  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : fuck OFF NAT  
**WidowmakerNR** : ;) ;) ;)  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : wait is he coming to pick me up or do i have to ask him?  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : Can you ask him for me?  
Auto Response from WidowmakerNR: _I am away from my computer right now_  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhnataaasshhhhaaaaaa  
Auto Response from WidowmakerNR: _I am away from my computer right now_

 **xXxbasketcasexXx** : hey nat said u would drive in the mornings, can u pick me up 2mrw?  
**RedWing85** : maybe. What’s in it for me  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : uhhhhhhh friendship?????????  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : Please and thank u?  
**RedWing85** : hmm  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : don’t make me beg wilson  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : …  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : sam  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : plz  
**RedWing85** : hmm  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : plz plz plz  
**RedWing85** : idk maybe if you said something nicefor once  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : SAMULE PLZ **  
** **RedWing85:** :) waiting  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : you know what I’ll just walk  
**RedWing85** : and fade your black everythings with sunlight, drac?  
**RedWing85:** 8:30  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : :)  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : ttyl

 **RedWing85** : hey steve  
**StevenGrant007** : hi sam I gotta eat dinner brb  
**RedWing85** : k but what was that band Bucky was talking about yesterday   
**RedWing85:** I don’t think I have any of those CDs in my car  
**StevenGrant007** : idk i wasn’t really listening he talks about a new band like every week  
**StevenGrant007** : i g2g!!  
**RedWing85** : useless.

* * *

The first morning, they switched the radio channel so many times between them that the knob came loose.  
  
The third morning, Sam and Bucky both brought mix CDs, each an easy combo of things the other liked. Steve gaped from the backseat as they exchanged what was clearly hours of careful curation on both sides. When they both sang along to Fat Lip and Hey Ya, Steve was sure somewhere a pig went soaring into the sunset on golden wings.  
  
Had anyone asked, Sam might have admitted that mornings were fast becoming his favorite part of the job.

* * *

In spite of their best intentions, the first paycheck went straight into an extra-large Sbarros pizza at the mall food court. Steve and Sam had been handed a full-color catalogue that was supposed to act as a sales handbook and shoved onto the storefront floor without so much as a primer on working the cash register, so things had gone about as successfully as anyone could’ve hoped. Sam had gotten into the habit of dressing the mannequins in one blocked color (nobody ever stopped him) and Steve only accidentally gave away two pairs of fifty dollar jeans. Clint, the opener at Bath & Body works a few storefronts down, flipped through the catalogue with wide eyes at the food court table, pausing to reorient the centerfolds.  
  
“This is just softcore prep porn,” he marveled, turning the book to show off a tangle of tan, slender kids on a beach, barely wearing anything let alone merchandise. Sam shrugged.  
  
“Porn aside, it just doesn’t make sense. How can a catalogue not even tell you what clothes they have? How is that a business model?”  
  
“Models _are_ the business,” Steve sighed heavily, gnawing on a crust from the pile that Bucky had discarded. “They’re selling an idea.”  
  
“Moral turpitude. The nerve!” Sam exclaimed, fanning himself with a Sbarros napkin. “That I should be spending my last sixty days in such depravity!” Clint and Steve laughed but Bucky stared him down. Sam faltered under the weight of it. “Got something on my face besides impeccable features, Barnes?”  
  
“Sixty-two days,” he replied, quiet but succinct. Steve choked on his crust, face flushing as he coughed.  
  
“Is that a horror movie quote? I’ve heard that. Where’ve I heard that?” Clint asked through a yawn, the day’s work getting to him. Beneath his checkered apron he was basically wearing pajama pants anyway, and it was a wonder he wasn’t already asleep at the table. He had perfect physical attendance in school and at graduation won a paper certificate that said so, thought he had single-digit literal, contributing attendance to any of his first three morning classes. Bucky shook his head.  
  
“You’ve got 62 days left. You said 69 last week.” Sam blinked and no one had a response. “What? I can count!”  
  
“Keep your countdown to yourself, man, you’ll hurt my feelings,” Sam chuckled, though something pinched at the back of his neck that threatened to color his cheeks. Bucky shrugged and kept his eyes on the table. “In 62 days, I’ll definitely have black lung from inhaling all that cologne,” he covered. “I’m already bored out of my skull. Boss wouldn’t even notice if all the dummies were naked anyway. Hell, he doesn’t even care what I wear, I could come in totally naked!” He exclaimed, pulling at the fabric on his chest. Bucky slurped at his pop.  
  
“Bet you couldn’t even go a whole day without a shirt,” He said, low and challenging. Sam folded his arms.  
  
“I could.”  
  
“You couldn’t. You’d complain about the air conditioning in twenty minutes,” Bucky said, his hands tucked into the long sleeves of his own shirt. “I double dog dare you. Just like the handbook suggests,” he added, gesturing at the softcore porn Clint had discarded. Sam glared at him. “How bored are you, really?” Bucky egged him on. Sam undid the top button of his polo and flipped up the collar.  
  
“Bored enough to prove your ass wrong.”

* * *

 **StevenGrant007** : u r a MONSTER BUCK  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : wat  
**StevenGrant007** : SOMEBODY haS to be SHIRTLESS EVERY FRIDAY NOW because SOMEBODY just wanted to see sOMEBODY ELSES ABS THROUGH THE WINDOW ALL DAY!!!!!!!!!!!! AND THE BOSS THOUGHT IT WAS GREAT!!!!1  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : omg wat  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : dreams really do come true?  
**StevenGrant007** : IT IS 2 COLD IN THAT MALL BUCKY  
**StevenGrant007** : this is not cute!  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : im sry  
**StevenGrant007** : U R NOT  
**  
  
xXxbasketcasexXx** : hi honey how was yr day  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : nice abs btw i heard the boss loved em im so proud of u babe  
**RedWing85** : all your fault  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : oic  
**RedWing85** : I’m gonna press charges  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : don’t bother i plead guilty, you lost and I REALLY won  
Auto Response from RedWing85: _I bet James Buchanan Barnes doesn’t have the cojones to sing Backstreet Boys in the middle of the food court on a table tomorrow at lunch break…_  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : who do u think u are, Nat?  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : and I’ll bet you’re wrong  
**RedWing85** : prove it

* * *

So summer melted on at a snail’s pace, the heat climbing as the weeks fell away and slurred into a mundane day to day. The excitement of responsibility grew stale within a week, and by the month marker Sam was tired as soon as he woke up in the morning and looking forward, confoundingly, to the challenges and contests between himself and the ever-removed Bucky, to see who could drink an Icee the fastest, who could hold the most hangers from their belt loops, who could stack pennies the highest and throw wadded up receipts the furthest. Steve watched with quiet understanding, biting his cheek through their shared laughter, and tried his best, truly his honest best, to make things a little more clear for both dense parties without being too obvious.  
  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : did u see Nat’s hair 2day, did she tell u about the disaster?  
**StevenGrant007** : did U see how cute Sam looked in the new denim jackets we got in?  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : steve plz

 **StevenGrant007** : he’s really trying to connect with you, its just his way  
**RedWing85** : whatever he’s my sworn enemy  
**StevenGrant007** : dude  
**StevenGrant007** : just  
**StevenGrant007** : meet me halfway here man  
**RedWing85** : fine, he’s funny  
**StevenGrant007** : :) see  
  
  
(And truly, they needed all the help and prodding they could get.)  


**xXxbasketcasexXx** : anyway im just saying gwen stefani could actually murder any of those girls if she wanted to  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : but she doesn’t  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : and that’s true power  
**RedWing85** : idk I think britney’s got some rage in her  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : no  
**RedWing85** : what u mean, NO, she’s like a disney queen  
**RedWing85** : i think she’s pulling ahead in a death match for sure  
**RedWing85** : probably a witch  
**RedWing85** : but if I had to choose, I’m going JLo.  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : not my type  
**RedWing85** : and what is your type?  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : idk not JLo  
**RedWing85** : cmon. jenny from the block.  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : she’s not from our block tho  
**RedWing85** : I don’t think u get it  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : YOU don’t get it  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : g2g bai  
**RedWing85** : wait are you picking me up tmrw???  
Auto Response from xXxbasketcasexXx: ~*~in the end it doesn’t even matter~*~  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : ya duh always  
Auto Response from RedWing85: _GONE. SHOUT OUT 2 MY CREW U KNOW WHO U ARE SR JB NR CB! BEST OF THE BEST!_  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : IT’S NOT JAMES  
Auto Response from RedWing85: _GONE. SHOUT OUT 2 MY CREW U KNOW WHO U ARE SR JB NR CB! BEST OF THE BEST!_ _  
_ **xXxbasketcasexXx** : FUCK U SAMULE  
**RedWing85** : something wrong, tightpants?  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : take my initials off yr friends list this instant  
Auto Response from RedWing85: _GONE. SHOUT OUT 2 MY CREW U KNOW WHO U ARE SR TIGHTPANTS NR CB! BEST OF THE BEST!_  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : ...  
**xXxbasketcasexXx** : college boy so clever.

* * *

And so it went, in clumsy steps, by excruciating inches, towards a less than special day in the middle of the week, at a much-needed lunch break. Scott at the ice cream place had ‘messed up’ a bunch of sundaes and Sam and Steve were all too happy to make them disappear. Indifferent, Bucky slurped at a Surf City Squeeze.

"Did I see some girl bring you that smoothie today, Barnes?" Sam asked over his pink spoon, chocolate dripping into his bowl. Bucky shrugged, charcoal on disinterested eyes flat-lining.

"Jealous, Wilson? No baby preps showering you in phone numbers?" He asked, punctuating with an audible slurp. Sam bristled.

“Please,” he spat. “We get plenty of attention. Me and Mr. Smedium can move a dozen of our dumbest novelty shirts in an hour.” He smacked Steve on the back, who frowned.

“So could I,” Bucky countered, “if I were as shameless as you clowns.”

“That so? A Cinnabon says you’re wrong,” Sam challenged in that familiar, playing tone.

“You’re on,” the grungey boy hissed. “I get to pick the shirt.” _  
_

* * *

“Sam,” Steve had adopted his warning tone, “I hate these.”   
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“You _know_ that I hate these. I actively keep them off the big displays. I--- this is the worst thing I’ve ever seen.” Steve held up a barely-fabric t-shirt with the phrase “DADDY NEVER SAYS NO” in cursive athletic-stitch font, like a letterman jacket cola logo. Bucky had chosen it for the challenge without needing to look any further in the store and laughed all the way back to Hot Topic. Sam winced, folding his arms tight over his chest.  
  
“ _I know_ ,” he replied before lowering his voice to a bitter grumble. “It’s a goddamn marvel it ever got past a marketing panel.”  
  
“Teenage girls cannot wear this.” Steve was fuming, red flushing to his ears. “Teenage _boys_ cannot wear this. _No child is allowed to buy this_. I refuse to actively peddle this so you can eat a cinnabon with my gross neighbor from the carpool. This crush has gone too far.” A wave of panic set in; without Steve he was only one half of a gorgeous sales-crushing team. He would lose for sure if only his face and charm were pulling all the weight. It was widely acknowledged that while he was more handsome, Steve definitely worked harder on the pull down machine.  
  
“Steve, this is about pride! My _pride_!”  
  
“Your _dick!_ ” Steve corrected in the same desperate tone. Sam bristled.  
  
“Do you think I _like_ this shirt? Do you think this is fun and cool for me?” Sam held up the offending material. “Little shit did this on purpose! I cannot back down in the face of this insult. I don’t want to do this alone! Your rep’s on the line, too!”  
  
“And whose fault is that?”  
  
“We have to be strong.” Sam struck as proud a pose as he could muster. Steve withered him with his gaze.  
  
“We’re not doing it at all. A joke’s a joke but this is going to ruin lives.” Steve folded his arms, the seams of his swim team shoulders hissing tight. A cold dread ran down Sam’s spine as a familiar and terrible tune began to drift across from the Hot Topic: Bucky had already begun his campaign. In a panic, Sam scrambled to the only leverage he might have.  
  
“I’ll get you T’Challa’s screen name,” he offered. Steve faltered.  
  
“Wh---you fuckin’ could not. Natasha won’t give it up.”  
  
“Clint owes me a favor,” Sam assured him, sensing the drop in resolve already. “It could be your favor.”  
  
“How the hell does Clint owe you a favor?” Steve groused,  
  
“He knocked over an entire display of Cucumber Melon lotions when I was visiting once after close-up and I told his manager it was me. Saved his job.” Sam was sure his shoes still smelled vaguely fruity. Steve ran a hand through his hair, considering the idea.  
  
“You had to pay for it?”  
  
“Fuck no,” Sam exclaimed. He immediately dialed it back with a raised eyebrow and head nod at two girls walking into the store. One decidedly looked at the floor and the other giggled; a typical response. Sam waited until they were well past their greeters post to continue. “Customer’s always right, I said my hands were slippery from trying too many samples.” Steve considered it.  
  
“ _He_ could get it from Nat.”  
  
“He could get it from Nat,” Sam confirmed. “And you could IM him every night. Write him poetry. Direct connect and send him---”  
  
“Let the record show I am doing this for love,” Steve groused, snatching three of the offending shirts from the back of the shelf where he’d previously hidden them. Sam couldn’t help but inwardly sigh. It was a small wonder any of the stores in this incestuous mall got anything done, run by teenagers who were all dating, pining for, or blatantly despising other teenagers. But for all that drama, it made the endless retail hours pass with a little more levity. He could count on Natasha for all the mall gossip after hours in the parking lot where they all gathered at their beat up cars (and to have horror stories to top all horror stories, working at Club Libby Lu across from Scott at the Baskin Robbins, whom she repeatedly begged not to let the birthday parties of wirey little cupcake girls have ice cream before she had to corral and douse them with glitter.) Honestly, he might not even need Clint’s leverage to get T’Challa’s screen name out of her if he asked nicely enough. Steve looked at that guy like he hung the moon, always casually mentioning some new gadget at his Sharper Image job that was going to like, revolutionize ergonomics or some shit. T’Challa was handsome, Sam would grant him, but seemingly disinterested in anything that wasn’t Next Season. For all intents and purposes, Steve looked like a walking Crate  & Barrel when he wasn’t forced to wear store merch, and the guy was tough to get a read on. Steve, however, wore his heart on his fucking sleeve. Currently, he was folding the offending shirts and placing them prominently in the main display, twitching the while. Sam looked past him across the mall, where Bucky was doing the same with an Aaron Carter babydoll-cut top. The print was slightly off and the color a little wonky, and besides that Sam could think of literally no worse musician to ruin Bucky’s day, if you could be so generous as to call that little shit a musician. Bucky was holding up the shirt, inspecting it, and looked up to catch Sam’s stare. He flipped him off with a scowl and Sam grinned. It was five minutes to noon. At one o’clock, one of them would be feasting on a free, hard-won Cinnabon, and Sam was dead set on it being his.

* * *

Bucky did not have the benefit of a stunningly handsome counterpart in crime. The two of them, Wilson and Rogers, were a goddamn beacon of masculinity in that prep wonderland, their arms just a hair’s breath from breaking out of the shirts that contained them like a coordinated effort at Alcatraz. But Bucky did have Doreen, his brilliant boss Doreen, with her short sharp hair and enthusiastic love of everything soft, Halloween striped socks to her knees and a black Scooby-Doo graphic tank top belted like a dress. Rubber bangles went halfway up her arms. Bucky loved sharing a shift with her because they looked like heaven and hell together, Lisa Frank and Frank Iero. She saw him stalk back from his break and didn’t hesitate.  
  
“Is that sporty boy still giving you the runaround?” She asked point-blank. Bucky flustered.  
  
“My _nemesis_ ,” he corrected, tucking his hair haphazardly behind his ears with a flourish, “has engaged us in an unfriendly competition.” Doreen arched an eyebrow and continued to arrange tin buttons in the basket by the register.  
  
“Us?”  
  
“We have one hour to sell a dozen Aaron Carter t-shirts,” he said, dismayed. Doreen laughed freely.  
  
“We haven’t sold that many of those in two whole days. The color is off,” she pointed out as Bucky held it to the light and groused.  
  
“I know that. So does he.”  
  
“Ahh." Doreen nodded. "What are the stakes?”  
  
“Cinnabon,” he replied. “And bragger’s rights.”  
  
“Mmm, that’ll be a cute date, if you pay,” Doreen nodded. Bucky glared across the mall at the Abercrombie windows.  
  
“I will not be paying. That’s not the point.”  
  
“Oh?” She said dreamily without looking up. “Then what’s the point, Bucko-boy?”  
  
“Pride.”  
  
“Oh you’ve got plenty of that. You’re definitely going to win,” she said archly. A lanky girl with shadowed eyes brought a tube of hair dye and a studded choker to the counter and Doreen happily rung her up. Counting out change she noticed Bucky arranging the shirts closer to the front window, pulling up his pants idly. “Those are new,” Doreen said.  
  
“Yes?” He responded quickly, nearly defensive. She smiled.  
  
“You typically swing for the variety that uses maybe---” she drew figures in the air, “an eighth of that amount of fabric.”  
  
“So?”  
  
“Ya look very cool.”  
  
“Thanks," Bucky replied, hands in his pockets. Doreen considered him.  
  
“Like so specifically cool today. Why today?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Bucky hissed, “it’s whatever, they’re cool pants!”  
  
“Sure are.”  
  
“Stop it, Dor.  Are you gonna help me win or not?”  
  
“Win what?”  
  
“The cinnabon!”  
  
“No, I want you to say it. Tell me what you want to win.” Doreen raised her voice over Good Charlotte and cocked her head with a smile, glitter on her cheeks catching the light. Bucky groused.  
  
“I want to win a cibba--- I mean a--- I want to _win_ , okay?” The words tumbled out and it was clear to Doreen he couldn’t admit his (maybe unconscious) motivation. She smiled and patted him on the shoulder.  
  
“I want you to win, too,” she said. He shut his eyes with a tortured sigh.  
  
“Great. Then put on _Aaron’s Party_ as loud as you can.”

* * *

An hour into their efforts, Abercrombie’s dream team had still only managed to sell six shirts, and all to a subgroup of customers that Sam and Steve referred to very openly as Gross Moms. They came alone, poking around for daughters and sons, but they objectified like the world was ending and their divorce papers had just gone through. Sam was more than happy to unload a bunch of the target merchandise on them, though he pitied their children at home. He was staring across, eyes glazed as he took in groups of teens drawn to the spectacle of weird that Barnes was performing, when he felt a tap on his shoulder.    
  
“Um, is this new?” A young girl was asking in that voice that said she practiced saying it to herself more than once. Sam looked over his shoulder to find the kid wasn’t, for once, asking Steve. Her eyes darted between his abdominals like a sparrow, avoiding his surprised gaze. “It’s cute, right?”  
  
“Uhh---” A wave of guilt hit Sam square in lungs. This was a real human child, maybe 3 or 4 years younger than he, with obvious dumb attraction to him that he was about to trick into buying the most horrible shirt on the planet. “I bet it would look cuter on you,” he said, the words falling out before his conscience could catch up. The girl beamed, tucking a plait of satin dark hair behind one ear.  
  
“You guys are so nice,” she said to the floor. Sam’s vision blurred at the edges as he imagined her wearing it, god forbid, to school, wearing it around the house, yelling at her parents when they tried to tell her she couldn’t wear something like this in public, forging an adolescent war over this fucking shirt. “Everyone seems to be buying them, huh?” She rambled. “Back to school, I guess. They’re kind of funny.”  
  
“But---” Sam’s heart leapt in front of her like he might push her out of the way of an oncoming train. “It’s almost fall anyway. Might want to get a hoodie, right? Something cuddly for those bonfire nights?” He said with a nudge. The girl’s face colored.  
  
“Y---you think so?”  
  
“Yeah. I bet you’ll have all kinds of fun Halloween dates, girl like you,” he said honestly with his brightest smile. She met his eyes finally, and she put the shirt back. When Steve checked her out at the register and she left with a navy blue hoodie, he looked at Sam with an arched brow.  
  
“That girl would’ve bought anything you told her to. What happened to eye of the tiger, Sam?”  
  
“Not worth it.”  
  
“You didn’t say that to those moms,” Steve said, pulling his shirt back on without any protestation from Sam.  
  
“Those moms were a mess,” he said, and they could both agree that was true. They were an easy sale; Sam barely had to gesture at the horrible shirt and call them cool even vaguely and they ate it out of his hands like birdseed. “It’s not my job to educate parents.”  
  
“That goofball is gonna win,” Steve pointed out. Sam looked through the front window, to Bucky dancing to the twenty or thirtieth straight play of Aaron’s Party in that purple crop-top with a lollipop sticking out of his mouth like sin incarnate, long hair tied up like he was Baby Spice. Four or five random kids danced along with him, irony out the window. Sam swallowed hard, unable to look away. His dancing was absolutely criminal, but not the good kind.  
  
“This,” Sam said, “this is worth it.” Black tripp pants were sliding ever lower down Bucky’s ass, revealing more and more red plaid boxers as they traveled. Sam frowned.  
  
“He’s not wearing emo pants today.” Steve rolled his eyes.  
  
“You pay more attention to his pants than to the weather.” Sam was already mentally calculating whether or not he had enough cash to buy two Cinnabons or if they would have to split one.  
  
“That’s not true.”  
  
“I’ve told a lot of lies today, mostly to horrible moms, and that’s not one of them!” Steve exclaimed, patience dwindling. Sam rolled his eyes.  
  
“I notice details, dude.”  
  
“Oh yeah?” Steve challenged. “What pants was I wearing yesterday?”  
  
“Uhh,” Sam floundered, trying to recall. When he conjured an image of Steve it was almost always like a cartoon character, wearing the same boring work shirt and jeans every day. “Luckys.”  
  
“Try khaki cargo shorts, asshole, you only care about _his_ pants. And he only wanted to have a cinnabon _date_ and you fell for it!” Steve exclaimed. Noticing the time, he dug around beneath the display cabinet to refresh the company-required scent spray that smelled like the pages of GQ magazine if you took it to the beach and then let it scientifically strengthen for a hundred years. Sam coughed into his sleeve.  
  
“I’m sorry I didn’t notice your pants, jeez."  
  
“THIS IS NO LONGER ABOUT MY PANTS. You _children_ ,” Steve sighed heavily. His tone took a 180 as two shoppers came into the store. “Hi, welcome to Abercrombie, let me know if you see anything you like!” He turned back to Sam. “Put your shirt back on and leave the collar down, for god’s sake.”  
  
“This is cold, man. This is betrayal.” Sam did as he was told and Steve shrugged.  
  
“I will give you the five dollars to buy the fucking cinnamon rolls, okay?”  
  
“Can’t buy dignity.”  
  
“Yeah well at the moment I’d say you’re beating him in that department.” Barnes was meanwhile shouting into a bullhorn that all proceeds from Aaron Carter merchandise went directly to benefit the baby pandas drowning in the Middle East and his boss was throwing candy in the crowd. Sam couldn’t tear his eyes away; Bucky was more energetic than he’d ever seen him. His default was such a disaffected lethargy that a dark cloud seemed to follow him around. Somehow this competition had lit a fire under his ass like Sam had never seen before, and goddamn if it wasn’t like watching a house catch fire.  
  
“You ever seen him like this?” He found himself asking out loud. Steve looked across the mall and chuckled.  
  
“I’ve known him since I was knee high. And this… energy,” he clarified, “only happens when it really matters.” He looked meaningfully at Sam, a horrible soft and loaded glance that made Sam’s whole face warm.  
  
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He asked without wanting to know. Steve cuffed him on the shoulder.  
  
“Some of us are really trying to make this last summer count,” he responded esoterically, and Sam didn’t have a response to that. Bucky of all people couldn’t possibly feel anything about their group’s last days together in the same city; he wasn’t the sentimental, feelings-baring type. But then again, he was increasingly full of surprises. Sam caught himself smiling then, alone at the front entrance as Steve went in to reshelve dressing room inventory, staring across the cold terrazzo tile that led up to the gates at Hot Topic. It would be two long, Aaron Carter-filled hours of his life, waiting for that shift to end. He wasn’t even sure he wanted there to be any Cinnabons left by the time they got there; when he thought too hard about the prospect of sitting together to eat one, his whole heart turned to jelly beans and landed in the pit of his stomach. It seemed impossible that all this time, all that teasing and grumbling and pushing around could have been ambiguous, could have been affectionate in another light. A nightmare flashed in a corner of his imagination: he liked him. He liked that raincloud of a human raccoon. And worse: he didn’t have long before he officially missed his chance to do something about it. But still, he worried. They had become so adept at teasing; was it even possible to 180 towards sweet nothings?

* * *

“I am assuming,” Doreen chimed as she closed up the register for the day, “that I am giving you that shirt as a victory present for cleaning us out of those monstrosities.”  
  
“It would be my honor to throw it personally in the trash,” Bucky laughed, stripping it off in favor of his tried and true black hoodie. Doreen took him in, framing him between her thumbs like a portrait.  
  
“Fix your eye-liner,” she said finally, tucking his long dark hair behind his ears. “Perfect.” Bucky glared but let her fuss.  
  
“I’m not meeting the pope, Dor.”  
  
“No, just someone _heavenly_ ,” Doreen replied, hitting the pun with so much affect that it made Bucky smile, a rare and unapologetic beam. “Got you.”  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
“You’ve waited so long. Agonized and lost sleep. All for this. Singular. Cinnamon roll,” she said, putting both her hands on his shoulders. “Go get him.”

* * *

He met Sam halfway.  
  
“Somebody owes me a Cinnabon,” he said in front of the Rainforest Cafe’s crocodile pool fountain, an unapologetic smile plastered on his face. Sam could see the whole of it for once, free from the veil that usually protected him like an emo medieval fortress. An uneasy feeling washed over and suddenly he felt himself getting angry. Emotion and hormones propelled him forward into a tidal wave he couldn’t stop.  
  
“You mopped the floor with me,” he snapped. “This is embarrassing, Barnes! I can’t believe you pushed this so far! What the fuck, man?”  
  
“Woah, easy, Wilson,” Bucky took half a step back, the backs of his knees hitting the edge of the fountain’s ridge. The animatronic croc snarled indifferently. “I’m sorry, dude, whatever. We don’t have to get a Cinnabon if you don’t want to.”  
  
“Yes, we fucking do! We do have to get a fucking Cinnabon because how else am I going to get your stubborn ass to sit down and be civil like two normal people on a date would be!”  
  
“Two---” The words caught up to Bucky in a rush, the sounds of a fake rainstorm rumbling through the restaurant. “What’re you saying?”  
  
“I’m saying you’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for in the next two weeks before I leave, is what I’m saying. If you’ve got a goddamn crush you better start saying nice shit about me right now or you’re never going to get another chance.” Bucky blinked, the color draining from his face all the way down to his feet and straight through the floor.  
  
“Steve told you?” He asked, voice quiet, hands wringing at the bottom of his shirt, and Sam could feel his lungs overcome with sunshine just to hear he hadn’t been wrong.  
  
“No,” he replied. “But you just admitted it. You dope.” Sam grinned then, incapable of keeping the light inside, and Bucky dropped to sit along the artificial rocks, robo-croc watching intently behind as the soap opera unfolded. His face fell to his hands, silent in the dread of the moment. Sam waited, nearly relishing it. “I wasn’t kidding,” he said finally. “You got like thirty seconds to take back all the years of grief you’ve given me if you think you’ve got even a snowball’s chance of kissing this face,” he said, gesturing a halo. Bucky looked up, aghast.  
  
“What?”  
  
“I’m not gonna ask again,” Sam said, shoving his hands in his pockets. Bucky’s eyes darted wildly, looking anywhere but at Sam.  
  
“Umm. You’re handsome,” he said dumbly. “Like all your features match your personality, everything fits you because you wear clothes and clothes don’t wear you,” he babbled. He put his hood up and slowly began to draw the strings to close around his face. “Umm. Fuck. You’re so smart, you just store all this wealth of history and science and you actually like learning and like teaching so when you talk about things, I love to listen because I can feel that. Jesus, that’s dumb… I’m sorry, this is so dumb, you didn’t ask for---”  
  
“Go on,” Sam demanded, arms folded and smile becoming more permanent by the moment. Bucky looked up at him through the shrinking hoodie window.  
  
“You’re funny, and your heart is good, and you fight like hell for the things that are important to you and the things that are the least important, too. You don’t take me too seriously, but you never invalidate me. You treat me like I’m not scary or dark or all the things I feel. And I don’t feel confused when we joke around, I feel like we’re on the same page, and I don’t care that the page is stupid and we’re just friends because it’s just nice to be with you. You’re great. I’m sorry.”  
  
“I’m not,” Sam said as he leaned forward finally. He pulled the Bucky’s drawstrings toward him to peck what little of his face was visible, his trembling lips, just softly and with clear purpose, to the sounds of ambient toucans and rainforest insects. “That’s a good start.”  
  
“Does this mean we’re not archrivals anymore?” Bucky asked with a chuckle, adrenaline shaking his voice only just so. Sam pulled him to his feet.  
  
“Fuck no. We’re getting a Cinnabon and then I’m gonna kick your ass at Goldeneye like I do every other night. We’re just enemies that kiss sometimes.” Bucky found his footing with teenage grace.  
  
“I can live with that,” he agreed, sober and stone-faced. As they shuffled towards the food court, he managed to sneak Sam’s hand into his own.

* * *

In spite of the afternoon’s proceedings, Sam couldn’t help but decide himself the big winner of the whole affair. He considered that maybe he would never live it down in the eyes of his best friends, and maybe the time between that day’s shift and his first week of class was all too short. But it happens that, for all nature’s cruelty, for bodies in progress and hormones in stereo, there is a magic of teenage summers that even she cannot touch, one that very kindly colors the days lazy and the nights endless, and there was somehow always one more Saturday just waiting for Sam and Bucky, tangled in a heap in Steve’s basement, to argue the virtues of The X-Files, SKA, Fruit by the Foot, or TRL. For all they were concerned, this Monday every Monday ahead, could wait.

* * *

* * *

  
  
  
  
  
**WidowmakerNR** : IT HAPPENED  
**StevenGrant007** : i know!! Finally! But don’t spread it around ok? They’re so proud  
  
**WidowmakerNR** : IT HAPPENED  
**Pizzapizzapizzadog** : fuckin finally  
  
**WidowmakerNR** : IT HAPPENED  
**UnbeatableSG** : lolololol yeessss  
  
**WidowmakerNR** : IT HAPPENED  
**Princepaws09x** : Wait. Had it not already?  
  
**WidowmakerNR** : IT HAPPENED  
**TheTonyStarkBTCHZ** : oh christ  
  
**TheTonyStarkBTCHZ** : So which of them will stay home to raise the children? Barnes?  
**StevenGrant007** : ??? who told you?  
**TheTonyStarkBTCHZ** : they’ll be baby emos D:  
  
**StevenGrant007** : NATASHA WHAT DID I JUST SAY!  
Auto Response from WidowmakerNR: _I am away from my computer right now_

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday, Sam Wilson! May the road rise to meet you, may your every dirtbag be teenaged.


End file.
